Love burns inside me (she cuts my skin and bruise my lips)
by ibuzoo
Summary: Sometimes words are not enough.


**Love burns inside me (she cuts my skin and bruise my lips)**

**Prompt: **Emotions

**Rating:** M

**Warnings: **Modern AU, mention of blood/gore/death/murder

**Word count:** 1003

**A/N: **The emotions that I'm describing in this are not really the usual emotions like fear, hate, happiness etc. but I don't think that Tom would think/categorise in these kind of emotions so I tried to write the fragments in some kind of way how he transports his emotions.

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><p><strong>o.<strong>

Sometimes words are not enough.

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through books, black letters on pure white pages that tell stories and facts of lives long gone, long forgotten and she listens blindly, absorbs his voice to the point that she can still hear it even when he's not around. When he reads aloud she's entranced, beguiled how he spins language after language, clauses and sentences flowing together, weaving with his elegance, his sophistication and Hermione forgets anything else.

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through books and Hermione listens.

_(it's his respect that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>iii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her with his hands, harsh hand-signs and snapping fingers like a thunderbolt right before the impact and each consonant is piercing, cutting while his slender fingers articulate with the precision of a surgeon, slicing through the air like a knife does through butter. People are mesmerised, people are falling over themselves to obey his orders and she watches his minions marching like toy soldiers gladly giving their heads for his cause and she can't stop to think that maybe, she'll give him her head on a silver tablet too.

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><p><strong>iv.<strong>

Tom speaks to her with his hands and Hermione listens.

_(it's his authority that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>v.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through his posture, rigid and fixed, back straight and shoulders hoisted, pumped with slender hips and long legs, a statue marbled out of alabaster and his face rests stoic, bland. A savage grin splits his face and he reeks of supreme authority, commands the attention of a room with a single flutter of his eyelashes, without a word out of his fine curved lips and Hermione feels special at his side, mighty, almost powerful and she ignores the way his darkness creeps up on her spine, tries to swallow her inch by inch.

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><p><strong>vi.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through his posture and Hermione listens.

_(it's his ascendency that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>vii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through his eyes, cruel grey storms that flicker with colours of cerulean and steel and they remind her of the caspian sea, ferocious and brutal waves that crash against the shore and wash away any emotion that lies beneath. When he clutches his hands around her naked body - fingers pressing in the pink skin of her buttocks until a pang of pain flares up inside her stomach and his lips leave saliva covered trails between the hollows of her breasts - she can see a dozen different senses splitting at the surface of his sight, a gale of wanting, needing, possessing, mine, mine, mine. She's desperately in love with him and she tries to hold onto these little pieces of affection because she fears that's all he has to give - and she's not ready to lose the splinters he feeds to her heart.

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><p><strong>viii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her through his eyes and Hermione listens.

_(it's his obsession that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>ix.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in touches, all the time, like an ash cloud looming over an island - a hand on her lower back, fingers on her neck that leave a tickling sensation behind - and she feels the bruises from long forgotten days, watches amazed how they vary between indigo and lavender, sometimes olive on her tanned skin until they fade and nothing stays behind, not a trace, not any proof that he had touched her at all. Sometimes he touches her lips and traces the outline with his index, with his thumb before he leans down and ravishes her mouth, drags his teeth over the thin layer of skin until it breaks and he licks at the wound, sucks and drinks the red thick honey while he moans under his breath, catches droplets with his tongue. Her lips flash bright baker-miller pink in the mirror and the skin is mauled and abused and she wonders when it started between them, when did the hate suddenly felt like love? She pretends she doesn't notice the difference anymore.

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><p><strong>x.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in touches and Hermione listens.

_(it's his love that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>xi.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in blood, thick and succulent crimson that soaks his flesh and even the wrinkles and creases between his fingers, covers them like gloves he can't doff. He never kills his victims instantly because he lives to make them suffer, bathes in their anguish and sometimes little drops of the burgundy honey splash against the muscles on his neck, sometimes against his jaw and cheek and she leans in - amazed - so her tongue can dart out, licks the copper juice to savour it between her teeth before she bites down on his jaw, leaves kisses of red-smudged saliva behind. The scent of blood seeps in the creases of her lips and she flicks her tongue over it, again and again and again.

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><p><strong>xii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in blood and Hermione listens.

_(it's his brutality that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>xiii.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in Death, ashen flesh and naked bodies that she sees in her dreams lying to her feet with distorted faces, an inhumanly hard piece of work, a glimpse at what he's really capable off but she doesn't fear, doesn't need to keep a distance because half of them are dead because of her - for her. The stench of Death will never quite leave him and it lingers around him like fine ice rain that glistens in a frosty January night but the smell doesn't repulse her, rather makes her take another step into his direction, like a guide that shows her where she belongs and she breathes deep in, smells freshly mown grass and parchment and spearmint and that's all that really matters. It feels like Tom feeds her with darkness and gore and she opens her mouth, wide, takes it all and swallows it down.

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><p><strong>xiv.<strong>

Tom speaks to her in Death and Hermione listens.

_(it's himself that speaks after all)_

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><p><strong>xv.<strong>

Sometimes words are not enough.


End file.
